


Free Passage

by ljs



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Comfort, Established Relationship, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-14 14:19:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16914477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ljs/pseuds/ljs
Summary: Established relationship, present-day.Anthea returns home from a hard week in Washington. She has a diplomatic passport. So does Mycroft.





	Free Passage

Footsteps–sharp, percussive with the strike of expensive heels against the floor --echo down the cold Heathrow hallway. 

Anthea is usually quieter than this; in fact, she prides herself on noiseless travel through the world when silence is called for. But she has been in Washington for the past several days debriefing MI6 agents on the implications of the Steele dossier being confirmed in all its particulars, and here in London there have been several brewing crises, and all in all, she'd rather like a shower and six hours' uninterrupted sleep. These are unlikely to be forthcoming, and fuck it, she'll walk as loud as she likes.

Behind her, trailing by a fair margin, are the rest of her overnight flight from D.C. One of the perquisites of being Mrs Mycroft Holmes in private life – although she uses her maiden name at the River House – is first-class treatment. She's always first off the plane. 

Which reminds her to get her passport out of her briefcase. It's a diplomatic passport, which also should get her first through the queue –

At which point an almost hidden door in the wall opens, and a tall, shaggy blond man in an official vest steps out. "Miss Matheson?" he says in a Yorkshire accent. "If you would come this way?"

She looks at the man. Looks again. Holding her laughter inside, she says smoothly, "Certainly," and follows him through the almost hidden door.

As it shuts behind him, however, she says, "Why the play-acting, Sherlock?"

"Hell. I owe John ten pounds," he says petulantly, in his own voice. "I thought it would take you at least thirty seconds to find me out."

"Sherlock, please. Think what I do for my living." She smiles. "And you're here to—"

"Take you to Mycroft. He'd planned to collect you himself, but the Prime Minister—"

"Say no more." She knows just what a nightmare that's been for Mycroft. "What did you do to allow him to call in the favour?"

Sherlock's face shifts, just a fraction, and she sees the pain underneath. "Bad visit with Eurus. He had to get me out."

"Oh," she says. Her sympathy for both Holmes men rises, but she can't allow herself to show it to Sherlock. She'll save it for her husband. 

But as they walk down the corridor toward an actual member of the UK Border Force standing at the next actual door, she makes her walk quiet again. Sherlock glances at her, nods, keeps going.  
…………………………………….

When she emerges into the cloudy Saturday morning, the damp chill slaps her awake. Sherlock leads her to the black Range Rover Mycroft uses in the country – "too tricky to use a driver today," he says, and does a quick sweep with his phone for listening and tracking devices before they get in. She would ask questions of him, but Mycroft doesn't share operational details with his brother, what with his engrained tendency of going off-piste. 

Instead, she sends a text. **On our way, darling. Apparently some bad actors about? A.**

Within a minute: **Just a precaution. I'll meet you at the cottage. M.**

She looks up. Yes, Sherlock is heading west, rather than east into the city. "It's good of you to drive me," she says, and she's almost wholly sincere.

"I've a case in Devon," he says dismissively. "I'll drop you off in Oxfordshire before heading on."

"Mycroft is lending you his car? Really?"

"I'll owe him another favour," Sherlock sighs.

Anthea laughs, and feels some of the weight of the world slip off her shoulders, even as her phone buzzes with a query from her office.  
…………………………………….. 

Smoke gently rises from the cottage chimney, she sees as Sherlock pulls up, but there's no Bentley in the drive. 

The caretaker must have been in. But because she's not a fool, she first texts Rosa (MI5 before retiring to the country and caretaking). Quick answer confirms that it's safe. 

"Thank you, Sherlock," she says as she gets out. In her mind she kisses his cheek as she would any normal brother-in-law, but in actuality she knows it would offend him, so she merely nods and waves him away on his journey.

He hasn't taken off the bloody disguise yet, she thinks, and laughter carries her into the cottage.

As she toes off her shoes, a text-alert. **Approximately twenty minutes away, my dear. M.**

She sends back, **I'll be in the bath. A.**

After she starts the tea brewing, she goes into her and Mycroft's bedroom. They haven't been here for a few months, what with the world going so dramatically to hell, but there's a gas fire on low and fresh linens on the bed. She drops her hand-luggage and briefcase and heads into the en suite to start the bath.

It's just at the right height when she comes back with her cup of second flush Darjeeling. She drops her clothes where she stands and ties up her hair before sliding into the slightly steaming water.

The water is bliss. She lets her worries slip away and closes her eyes.

Mycroft's arrival is almost silent, but she knows when he comes through the front door – it's as if the air shifts around him, sending out waves of energy. She's had the same sensitivity to his comings and goings since he plucked her from the trainee pool all those years ago and gave her a job in his office; when she moved into her own section and out of his supervision, she asked him out but kept the secret; in the years of their marriage, however, she's fairly sure he knows. She wonders sometimes if he's as attuned to her, but she doesn't ask. He gives her quite enough as it is.

He calls out, "I'll join you in a moment," from the bedroom.

"I'm here for you," she says, and sinks a little deeper into the warmth.

She knows what he'll do, and she tracks his movements in her mind. He'll take off his coat and jacket, and hang them in the wardrobe. He'll take off his shoes. He'll put his phone on the charger (although he'll collect it soon enough). And – yes, there it is, the sound system. It's not one of his 40s jazz favourites but a sardonic, cynical torch singer he likes when he's especially exasperated with being the British government.

So she's ready when he stalks into the en suite, unknotting his tie as he comes. "Hard week, darling?" she says.

"Unspeakable."

"And you had to deal with Sherlock? You didn't text me about it."

"Couldn't bear it. Washington the same?" 

"So very much the same."

"Horror all round, then." He starts to toe her clothes aside, and then, compelled by his tidy nature, carries them out to the bedroom. She laughs to herself, but is composed when he prowls back in. "Room for me in there, my dear?"

"Darling," she says, "you have a diplomatic passport with me. Free passage where you will."

He goes to his knees beside the tub. His gaze is a kiss, even before he slides his hand behind her nape and brings her to him. They mingle breaths and sighs, her wet fingers on his fine cotton shirt, his long fingers playing against her hairline. Then, when the first greetings are done, he rests his forehead on hers. "I will always ask, Anthea, regardless."

"One reason I love you," she whispers. "Now get your arse in here." 

He sets a new record for stripping his clothes (and folding them before dropping the pile on the radiator). She takes another sip of tea, and holds out the cup for him as he turns. "Finish it for me?"

"Bless you." He disposes of the tea with a long, long swallow that tells her just how much he needed it. She's also gazing her fill at him, long and (effortfully) lean and bare in the low light. Her legs stir the water as she looks.

He sees the motion, sets aside the cup, and moves. She's already scooting forward, making room for him. 

But once he's down, he tips her head back against his shoulder and kisses her, deep as their respective positions allows. She feels him already hard against the small of her back. "All right? Not too tired?" he murmurs.

"Free passage," she says, and flips over to take him in, and she's home.


End file.
